I Could’ve Danced All Night
Category: 1990s
Rearview Mirror
This year, this picture will be 20 years old. I took this the first (and last) time I ever went water-skiing. After that summer, my toes would never again touch that lake water, nor would I return to that little town. I didn’t edit the picture in any way; it just has that curious green hue. Now it seems like a metaphor for looking back at youth, vigor, athleticism, the wide hope of your whole life ahead of you–all in the past, but captured by that cheap little camera. For those of us living insular lives, not traveling the world or checking off entries on Bucket Lists–those of us just trying to get by–it’s a nice reminder to know, as Sandra Bullock’s character says in Hope Floats, “Once upon a time your mama knew what it meant to shine.”
Isn’t It Ironic? Yeah, I Really Do Think.
Dear Alanis Morissette,
This is an example of irony. According to the Oxford English Dictionary “irony” is “a figure of speech in which the intended meaning is the opposite of that expressed by the words used.” Granted, the above example does not contain a figure of speech, but it contains visual irony. Out of all the spelling words, only “illiterate” was spelled correctly. And illiterate means “unable to read or write.” Get it?
Your song, “Ironic,” now notorious for not having one actual example of irony, is in itself ironic. I’m fairly certain they teach word meanings in Canada, but maybe you weren’t paying attention.
- Insects in wine? Not ironic.
- Posthumous pardons? Ask their families. Not ironic.
- Rain on your wedding day? Not ironic. Does the humidity cause Diana Ross “Love Hangover” hair? Perhaps. But it’s still not ironic.
So why am I hassling you 18 years later? You’ve gotten enough flak, right? I don’t want to give you any more flack (that spelling actually means “publicity,” which I’m doing right now, so that’s kind of ironic, huh?) I may be tardy to the party but I finally saw this parody of your 1995 ditty.
The video is similar, yet we are spared the braying donkiness of your singing style, as well as your epileptic seizures. I hear you have that under control now.
I think it’s great that you got to have your video played back in the day on MTV before it stopped playing videos. That’s a nice thing to have notched in your lipstick case. But they also used to play ZZ Top videos. The only member of that band without a beard is Frank Beard. That’s ironic.
And get this: the Segway tycoon died riding his Segway. Ironic.
Both Charlie Chaplin and Dolly Parton entered lookalike contests for themselves and did not win. Ironic.
Barry Manilow did not write his hit song, “I Write The Songs.” Ironic.
For more of these, check out: http://www.buzzfeed.com/ailbhemalone/the-19-most-ironic-facts-of-all-time.
So now I hope you’ve grasped the true meaning of the word.
You, you, you oughta know.
Truck Stop Weary, Numero Quatro
Hands down, this is the guy. This is the guy you want leaning intimately into you, inviting you to be in cahoots with him, to share the secrets he’s learned on the road.
Forgive me. I was premature in my assumption. THIS is the guy.
Yes, the one with the mutton chops, driving his Rebel Flag-decked out Bandit up to California. Is he sucking a Lemonhead? Is he dipping Skoal? He’s a man of mystery. I just feel a strong sense of… Gary Sandy surrounding him. Yes, that’s it. He must be related to Gary Sandy. You know, Andy Travis from WKRP?
Whoa. Is it hot in here? I’m feeling faint, and it’s not a touch of Johnny Fever. Believe me. Okay, time to refocus. Surely, there’s some trucker in this book who can compete with an aging sitcom star.
Um. No. That is NOT the ticket. Perhaps this young fella?
His head says Yankee, but his body says Confederacy. Who has time for a cocksure whippersnapper with an identity complex? Not me. I haven’t got time for the pain. Okay, let’s spin the wheel. Surely there’s SOMEONE.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH! Make it stop!
Truck Stop Weary, Numero Tres
- Carlisle, Pennsylvania 1988 from Marc Wise’s” Truck Stop”
Wayne is caught up in the ambiance that IS a Pennsylvania truck stop. So filled with anticipation is he of this new day, that he could barely push his hat down on his head. And who could blame him? Just walking into this charming lounge would brighten anyone’s day.
Across this great nation of ours, other truckers speedily consume their meals, rejoicing at the prospect of what the road will offer. George can barely contain himself.
Harlan is busting at the seams. As soon as he finishes this cigarette, it’s out of the comfort of this red booth and into the luxury of the big rig.
Young Buck, Jr is positively stoked to be spending the day with Buck, Sr, rolling across the wide open spaces of Wyoming, counting bug corpses as they splatter on the windshield.
Dick shares a glance with Kevin, a glance that conveys what words never could. Finish up your pie there, son, and let’s hit the road. Back to the snow and the relentless wind. We don’t get paid to sit. Well, technically, we DO, but you know what I mean.
Truck Stop Weary, Numero Dos
I’m so excited. And I just can’t hide it. Seriously. I convey this both in my posture and my expression, which exude a certain joie de vivre.
All ye men in trucker caps, dig through your cab until you find the mix tape with “Eye of the Tiger” and “Don’t Stop Believing” and play the bejesus out of it until you get your heads on right.
These pics aren’t even from the same STATE, but it looks like the same place, the same hopeless truck stop, filled with men filled with defeat. Seriously, brothers–y’all got to start listening to some Joel Osteen or something. Here, I’ll get you started:
I’m the head and not the tail.
I’m more than a conqueror.
I’m the victor and not the victim.
And just in case you can’t find that mix tape, here’s Jerry Reed’s inspirational “East Bound and Down”:
The Poor Man’s Six Flags
Today I showcase a fascinating assortment of another favorite picture book of mine, In Search of the Corn Queen. In it, Greta Pratt shares pictures of various county fairs in the American Midwest. Some are hopeful; some are hopeless. But all are a window into small town celebration.
This one gives me a glimpse of that adolescent excitement over what could be, with the whole world laid out before you, an endless possibility.
Like I said, boy, all you gotta do is pop 10 balloons to win those skateboards on the wall. It’s a piece of cake. Would I steer you wrong?
Drench the volleyball coach!
Dang, I thought I was hot, but she’ll totally be hotter than me in ten years, when I’m like, ancient or something.
I learned it from watching you, Dad.
No, that’s cool. You just sit in your overalls on the tailgate, and I’ll hold our wriggling young’un and try to down this cup of Mad Dog before I get pregnant again.
High point of the afternoon; winning bundt cake in the last round of the cake walk.
Good clean fun or a gateway to Spring Break mud wrestling?
Two tickets for a dollar, six tickets per ride, means three dollars for the ferris wheel, or I could just blow it all on a Fanta and funnel cake. What to do? What to do?
No, I am absolutely not living vicariously through my grandbaby.
Oh, yeah, life goes on. Long after the thrill of living is gone.
Superfly Media Pie Chart
Just click to watch 30 years of music sales by media. Feel old yet?
So Not Feeling 22
She’s on TV right this second, dancing in her new video, singing, “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22.” And that’s great because she is 22. She doesn’t seem to DATE 22, but whatevs. It’s a free country.
Now, I’m not 22, so I don’t feel remotely 22. But here’s the thing I don’t get: I don’t feel the age that I am. I feel more like quadruple 22. Like a good solid 88. What’s up with that? It’s like middle age plus interest.
Now if I were 22, I might spin around dizzily and gloat about it as well. I graduated college at 22, so yay–one dream accomplished. Has it benefited me in any way? Well, that’s another post. I own a video of me at 22, tanned and fit, doing front handsprings in a blue gingham bikini on the back lawn of a lake house. So, yeah, 22 was pretty freaking great. Nicole Brown Simpson didn’t fare so well that year, but sometimes life sucks.
Taylor starts the song with these words:
It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters
And make fun of our exes, uh uh uh uh
It feels like a perfect night for breakfast at midnight
To fall in love with strangers
Yeah, not so much for me. I have some reading glasses so that I can read the size 4 font on the Advil bottle, but I don’t possess any horn rim glasses, so I’m out on the hipster thing. And exes? Exes are something you bury deep in the recesses of the past, raised like Lazarus at the sound of arena rock songs, then quickly repressed again. Highway run… And breakfast at midnight? Well, that’s a good possibility, due to a decade of insomnia. But it won’t be eggs. Gotta watch my cholesterol. Hello, shredded wheat. And mercy, girl, don’t fall in love with strangers. Keep your knees together or you’ll find TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE.
In the chorus, she sings, Everything will be alright if we just keep dancing like we’re 22. I did a lot of dancing at 22, but it wasn’t to pop country, Miss Swift. In fact, Shania Twain hadn’t even been invented yet. Back then, they showed videos on MTV. It was a very Gin Blossoms and Warren G time in history. When Tom Petty came on the radio, singing the verse, “Oh, my my, oh, hell, yes, honey, put on that party dress,” it was a joy. Pure joy. But you can’t dance to Mary Jane’s Last Dance. There was also a hit called Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm. No lie. That was depressing. Can’t dance to that. And then there was this weird totally instrumental song that sounded like monks or something called Return to Innocence by Enigma. Can’t even sing to that. And lastly, the omnipresent little Lisa Loeb and all her nine stories, with her cat’s eye glasses, staring into the camera, singing Stay. Poutable, but not danceable.
So forgive me if I can’t dance like I’m 22. Or 32. But I have degenerative discs now, including torn and bulging ones. So I don’t know about you, but I should probably just sit this one out. Maybe in the new plush recliner. With a glass of moscato in my hand. Yes, that sounds like a plan.
I Don't Get It 